


Gold of Fools, Gold of Liars

by Minimaliminal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fae & Fairies, Fae!John, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-15 14:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7225798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minimaliminal/pseuds/Minimaliminal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't believe in fairies. He enjoys the old stories as much as anyone with an imagination, but reading silly little fairy tales and believing in them are two very different things. </p><p>But that's alright, because John never really believed in humans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I've had the beginnings of a plot for a Johnlock fairy tale simmering away in the back of my mind for ages now. But I feel like it's finally reached a boil, so I decided to start writing it down. Even though I've got like five other pet projects.
> 
> It's sorta kinda inspired by the song 'Tam Lin' by Anais Mitchell.

It was a well-known fact that no one liked Sherlock Holmes. It one of the first things anyone was told upon visiting the small but regal manor. Surely, within ten minutes of stepping across the threshold, anyone could expect to hear the following at least twice. “Greetings and welcome to Holmes Manor. I do trust you’ll enjoy your stay, but please be wary of a little lordling by the name of Sherlock. No one likes him.”

There were exceptions, of course. His personal maid found him amusing and Sir Lestrade was always willing to hear out his crazy ideas on how to improve the defense systems. But the general consensus was that Sherlock was not likable under any circumstances. He preferred it that way, in fact. He found that once people found you enjoyable to be around they made a point of spending time with you and trading meaningless small talk and… _conversing._ No, being generally disliked with a few exceptions was simpler. Especially on days like these.

This was a day he wouldn’t share with anyone. Partly because there wasn’t anyone remotely tolerable in a hundred mile radius to share it with. But mostly because what he was doing was slightly unsavory, less than moral and probably at least a little life-threatening and if anyone knew, they’d prevent him from doing it.

He’d run out on his brother’s court (with a peasant boy in a wig standing in for him, to delay Mycroft’s wrath) to collect poisonous plants (Not many are planted in the gardens, surprisingly enough) from the forest beyond the borders of their land (which Mycroft and their father had specifically forbade him from ever setting foot in).

Sherlock laughed euphorically as he passed over the river that marked the edge of their territory. Mycroft was probably discovering his absence at that very moment. Oh, he wished he could see his uptight brother’s face turn red when discovering he’d been fooled by some farmer’s son.

Sherlock guided his horse off the main road and continued through the light wooded area a few feet away. Mycroft’s men probably hadn’t even left the manor yet. Even after they’d discovered his absence, they’d still have to saddle up the horses and wrangle themselves into their armor. But Sherlock still felt it was safer to stay out of sight.

He plodded along at an easy pace, allowing his horse a rest after his mad sprint from the stables. He took this time to take in his surroundings, searching for changes in the landscape. He’d never actually been near the forest he was riding to. He couldn’t imagine what would make it so different from all the other forests and woods in the area. Sherlock assumed it must be a particularly lethal species of nightshade or some fearsome beast which made that particular forest so foreboding, but it could easily be something entirely different that he’d never even considered. To be entirely honest, that’s exactly what the boy was hoping to find.

He slowed his horse to a slow trot, giving him the chance to consult the rough map he’d transcribed onto his arm. If he was correct, and he always was, a few miles from here there should be a path. Probably little more than a muddy trail left by passing wildlife, but it would lead him right into the heart of the old forest.

It was by sheer chance that he didn’t miss it entirely. There was nothing marking the path. No deer tracks or footsteps, no knife-marks in the bark of the trees, nothing. Just a small gap between trees that became a passage if you looked at it from just the right angle. Anyone else would have overlooked it as just a funny coincidence. It’s not like one could control how trees in a forest grow, so it must have been coincidence. But no matter how such a formation was created, Sherlock knew instantly that this was the way.

The young noble hesitated briefly as he passed the invisible threshold. Not out of fear or apprehension, though. He only considered what a shame it was that the hoof prints of his horse should mar the perfect carpet of lush grass that lined the path. Sherlock brushed the thought off as quickly as it occurred to him. Grass grows quickly and it’s hardly rare. He spurred his horse on to a light gallop, eager to see what his father and brother have been warning him about since he learned to speak.

It was probably deadly vegetation, but it could be anything. The possibilities thrilled him.

The trail ended in a stretch of forest that looked like all of the rest he’d passed through. Although he couldn’t help but note that, whether due to the setting of the sun or his own excitement of having found it, the place seemed to have a glow about it. He swung out of his saddle in one swift movement, noting how the thick grass seemed to welcome the presence of his boots. He grinned without really knowing why and reached into his saddlebag for an apple to feed his horse.

“Good job, Helios. You may not be the fastest in the stable, but you’ve served me well today.” Sherlock cooed over the old beast who seemed to appreciate its little treat greatly. He guided the horse to a nearby tree, tying it securely to the trunk with plenty of leeway for the horse to wander and graze as it desires. Once it seemed content, the adventurer reached back into the saddlebag, fished out a small leather bound book and a pair of gloves and went to work.

He walked into a promising portion of the forest, where the trees grew close, casting deep shadows. He found that the most interesting things often were found in dark places. It seemed today, he was particularly correct. Within 20 minutes, he found a couple plants that are known to cause some interesting patterns of skin irritation under the right circumstances and one whose berries could induce uncontrollable bouts of diarrhea. Then, after he’d scavenged enough specimens to kill his horse in a variety of fascinating ways, he’d found it.

Deadly nightshade. A small garden’s worth, all nestled between the tangled roots of a half dead oak tree. Surely, this is what his brother meant to keep from him. Their pretty violet heads bowed at the end of their stems, as if bowing to him in greeting. For pure folly’s sake, he returned the gesture before kneeling to examine them more closely.

“Atropa Belladonna. Beautiful death.” Sherlock muttered to himself as he pulled on his gloves, carefully plucking a few flowers and leaves and pressing them between the pages. “Surprisingly enough, a close cousin to the common potato.”

After he felt he’d collected enough of the nightshades to thoroughly experiment with at home, he made his way back to his horse. It’d be best to ride back as soon as possible, while all of the plant matter was still fresh. He’d like to know exactly how the state of the plants effected their potency. But when he opened up his saddlebags to put away his specimens he realized he wasn’t ready to go back just yet. Something about this place felt… right. And besides, it would be nice to put off the inevitable boorish lecture from Mycroft for just another hour longer.

So, he pulled off his gloves, careful not to touch the outsides of them with his bare hands, and found a sunny patch of grass to lounge on.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Not really. He’d intended to just rest his eyes and bask in the warm sunlight. Yet, when he opened his eyes, the sun was hanging low in the sky and the shadows stretched long. Also, there was a man standing over him. A man encased in a golden light, as if every dawn that ever was or will be clung to his skin like so many curious kittens.

Sherlock realized, slower than he might be willing to admit, that this was impossible and frankly ridiculous.

He shook his head, thinking maybe it was some strange waking dream.

It wasn’t.

He blinked, hoping it was his eyes adjusting to direct sunlight.

It wasn’t.

Sherlock was forced to accept the fact that what he was seeing was, in fact, real. Now he just had to figure out what exactly he seeing.

Before he could think up any theories, the man kicked his leg, jolting him to attention. “Who the hell are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes. From Holmes manor.” He replied with as much dignity as one could from the flat of one’s back. Which turned out to be quite a bit. “I wasn’t aware this land was inhabited.”

“Well it is. And you’re trespassing on it. Now, if it was only trespassing, I could forgive you. People get lost. I’ve done my best to hide this place, but there’s a first time for everything apparently. But tell me, what right do you think you have that permits you to just tear up whatever flowers you please? Did you even think about asking?”

Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, wiping some of the dew off his ass. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I had no idea you owned the flowers. Oh, am I also breathing too much of your air? Am I intruding under your patch of sky as well?”

The golden man scoffed, the hard line of his mouth twisting into a cruel smirk. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Yes, I do own the flowers. I planted- ok, well I didn’t plant them. -but I’m the one who cares for them. I water them in the hot seasons, I shelter them in the cold, I do the weeding and the fertilizing and last spring the bees were particularly lazy so I had to pollinate them.” His emotions flashed across his face in rapid succession. Sherlock wished briefly that he could slow time to a crawl to give him the chance to study them more closely. Then they came to a halt at confused bafflement. “What do you even want deadly nightshade for, anyways?”

“There was a recent poisoning scare at Holmes Manor. It turned out to be just badly preserved meat, but everyone’s been on high guard since. My brother’s hired ten new taste-testers and they’re all dreadful company. So, I figured if I could understand all the most common and deadliest poisons, I might be able to find cures to their effects, negating the need for people to hover over us every time we eat.” Sherlock explained, a little surprised that he was able to make it through to the end without interruption. Usually, there’d be some interjection of ‘but that’s insane’ or ‘what does that mean?’ or ‘Apologies. My brother still doesn’t quite understand that corpses have no place in polite conversation’. While this new development was fascinating and more than a little thrilling, he wasn’t really sure what to do now. The golden man just stood there, looking thunderstruck. “Honestly, Anderson’s getting to be such a bore that if I can’t find effective antidotes I might just purposefully poison my wine. Anything to get him to stop him talking-“

“That’s absolutely ridiculous. You know that right?” he interjected, grinning with bewilderment. As he watched the man’s expressions flicker like a wildfire, Sherlock realized that his body wasn’t actually gold, so much as coated in a fine, shining mist. Except his eyelashes. Those were solid gold. The kind you bind illuminated manuscripts in. “How could you possibly test these ‘cures’? Poison yourself and hope for the best?”

He pulled himself from his trance long enough to respond. “That might be necessary to convince my brother that it works, but not until I can find a reliable formula. In the meantime, I have a cat that has a nasty habit of bringing me live rats.”

The strange, fascinating being before him shook his head, glittering in the low light. “So, I assume I can expect you to intrude on my home again?”

“As long as you’re not going to… turn me into a hairless rat if I do.”

He smiled. A grim thing with a little flash of teeth suggesting he definitely could, but probably won’t. Probably. “I feel like you’d make a better weasel than a rat anyways.”

“Very well then.” Sherlock nodded, chuckling with the strange, magical being he’d just discovered. Or rather, the strange magical being that discovered him.

“But you should be leaving.” He insisted when he glanced at the space above Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s getting late.”

“Oh, I don’t mind riding in the dark. The roads are-“

“No.” The golden man said seriously, his features solidifying into something hard and immovable. “You can’t be here after dark. Go, now.”

“But why-“ Sherlock protested, only to be cut off by the man physically shoving him in the general direction of his horse.

“Go!” He shouted after him, simultaneously running in the opposite direction.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and ran to his horse. As he swung into the saddle and prompted the tired old thing to a trot, he shouted over his shoulder, “Wait! I never got your name!”

As he rode down the invisible corridor of trees, he heard a single syllable carried over the wind.

“John.” Sherlock said to himself as he spurred his Helios into a gallop, testing the word on his tongue. “Well that’s not terribly magical at all.”

* * *

 

 

By the time Sherlock reached the manor, the last rays of sunlight had just died out. As he tied up his horse in the stables, he pondered on what state he might find Mycroft in. Sherlock was bound to get a beating for what he’d done, but it’d be worth it to see his pompous elder brother in distress for once in his life. He’d happily take ten lashings for just one out of place strand of hair.

The way his day had gone, he could probably take a thousand lashings with a smile on his face. He’d skipped an entire day of Mycroft’s dreary business talk. And he’s got dozens of specimens to work with along with a place to find more. And he’d found John, whatever he might be. Nothing could bring him down.

Or so he thought. Mycroft found him in the hall as Sherlock made his way to his room. He caught his younger brother by the ear before he even caught sight of him, dragging him along like a child as he went. “Do you honestly think you’ll escape from dinner again, Sherly?”

“I… was just-“ Sherlock tried to defend himself while simultaneous trying to wrench his ear from Mycroft’s grasp.

“Where on earth have you been, anyway? You’re filthy.”

Here it comes. “I was in the for-“

“No matter, you’ll have to make do as-is.” Mycroft let him go just before reaching the dining room, taking a moment to roughly dust off his shabby, muddied and grass-stained tunic before presenting him to his mother. “Dear lord, my brother’s a pig.”

It was then that he got a good look at his elder brother. To his surprise, he looked much the same way he always did. Perfectly composed without a single wrinkle in his fine clothes or a bead of sweat on his brow.  He didn’t care that he’d been missing all day, dealing with highly dangerous substances and possibly inhuman beings. He only cared that he didn’t look nice for dinner with Mummy.

That’s when Sherlock realized that he hadn’t noticed his absence at all. He’d spent the entire day miles away from home and no one even realized it. He could allow that his stand-in would’ve kept them from noticing while Mycroft held court maybe, but the entire day? Surely one of his tutors, his servants, Mrs. Hudson, _someone,_ would have noticed he was gone. But if they had, they would’ve told Mycroft. So they couldn’t have.

That was the downside of being someone no one liked. No one misses you when you’re gone.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, I hope it's as much fun to read.
> 
> Also, if you like my work so much that you feel compelled to give me money, I've got an etsy shop where I sell a bunch of cute mini paintings. Some of which you can even wear on your body!
> 
> Copy and paste: etsy.com/shop/Littlepatchofhell

After discovering that no one at Holmes manor cared enough about his presence to notice his absence, he made a point of being absent as often as possible. He visited the forest more and more as time went by. At first, he only went for a few hours every week. Then, he’d be gone for whole days. Until he spent more of his days in the forest than at home. Until he only rode home when John physically forced him out of the forest when the sun set, and forbade him to ride back after the sun rose. The forest began to feel more like home than the dreary old house that bore his name.

And John felt more like family than any human he’d ever known. It had only known the strange fae boy for a few weeks, yet already he felt like a brother to him. Like a real brother who cared about him, not the overbearing, prying, yet woefully oblivious brother that Mycroft pretends to be.

It was towards that sense of home and family that he rode towards that morning. If you could call it morning. The sun hadn’t yet risen. The horizon had just begun to show the barest hint of pink. But Sherlock didn’t care. It would be light enough by the time he reached the forest. That’s all that mattered. As far as he was concerned, the sun in the sky was only sand in an hourglass, counting down the moments until he could see John.

This morning, he was particularly eager because he’d brought his newfound brother a present. He thought of it as a kind of birthday present, although the fair folk don’t celebrate birthdays and neither of them had any clue of when John was born or if he was even born. For all they knew, he could have sprouted out of the ground. But none the less, Sherlock thought it fit to celebrate his friend’s continued existence. With a crossbow.

He adjusted his present’s position against his back as he guided his horse off the main road. Sherlock didn’t want his present to be too obvious, but a crossbow is a difficult thing to disguise. Not that it really mattered, because there was a large chance that John had never seen one before and Sherlock was being an utter idiot. But idiot or not, he was going to do this properly.

So he adjusted his cloak to conceal the lump in his back as he made his way to the burrow that John used as shelter. It used to be a fox den buried in the root system of an old tree but John, with his sparkling ingenuity and unlimited amount of time, expanded it until it fit him comfortably. During a particularly close call with a bear, they both even managed to squeeze into it at the same time. It was not terribly comfortable. But it was safe. And warm. Sherlock paused just as he began to see John’s glow emanating from the ground.

It was then that he realized exactly how early it was and John didn’t seem like much of a morning person. Sherlock doubted the fae boy would react well to being rudely awakened at sunrise.

Sherlock admitted to himself that maybe it’d be better to wait until John awoke of his own accord.

He took a seat by John’s fire pit, just a few feet away from the burrow, wondering if breakfast would be worth the walk back to his horse. He glanced at the lemony light peeking out of the inconspicuous little hole in the ground and decided against it. But the morning chill was beginning to get unbearable, so he gathered some wood, found two sticks and made an attempt at rubbing them together. As he had lived a sheltered life in a bustling manor with many servants and more sophisticated tools, he had never actually learned how to light a fire in the woods. He’d seen John do it dozens of times though and the mechanics of it seemed ludicrously simple. Take wood, apply friction, add more wood slowly so as not to smother it.

Apparently, although the theory is fairly simple, the ability to actually do it was much more difficult and probably required magic. Sherlock had broken about three pairs of sticks and all of his patience when John’s head poked out of the burrow.

“Sherlock!” He groaned, his eyes squinting against the sun. “What the bloody hell are you doing up there?”

Sherlock kicked at the pile of wood, blaming it for prematurely waking John. “Trying to make a fire. But apparently I’d have to be fucking faerie!”

John rolled his eyes audibly as he ducked back into the ground. “Just, give me a second. I’ll build one.”

Sherlock threw himself onto a nearby rock, glaring at the fire pit as if that might make it burst into flame. Then John climbed up from his nest in the ground. Hair rumpled, posture loose and naked as the day he born. Sherlock leapt to his feet and turned his back, both in attempt to give his friend some privacy and hide his burning face.

“Oh calm down, it’s not like you’re seeing anything new. We’re both equally equipped.” John grumbled as he rooted around the various nooks and crannies where he stored his belongings.

Sherlock choked with the realization that, while their ‘equipment’ was similar, they were a far, far cry from equal. And his certainly did not shine like a candle. He thought it best not to mention it.

“You didn’t think I slept in the burrow fully clothed, did you? It’s fairly clean, for a hole in the ground, but it’s still a hole in the ground.” John continued grumbling over the sound of splashing water as he washed up. “What’s that on your back? It looks like you’ve grown a second head.”

“It’s… nothing. A gift. It’s silly, really.” Sherlock bumbled, still trying to regain his natural complexion.

“Oh, may I see?” John’s voice was uncomfortably close behind him now.

“Are you dressed?”

John huffed a laugh in response. “Yes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder to make certain, sighing with relief when he saw John was speaking the truth. He shrugged off his cloak and drew the crossbow from its sling, presenting it to John.

He accepted it carefully, looking it over with confusion and fascination. “What is this? Some sort of contraption?”

“It’s a crossbow. It works a little like that sling shot of yours, but with much more power.” Sherlock explained, the chill becoming unbearable in the absence of his cloak. “I’ll show you how to use it, once you get a fire going.”

John rolled his eyes and set it aside. Sherlock found it rather surprising that a fire wasn’t the first thing on his mind, as he was wearing only a flimsy tunic. “I don’t know why you can’t do it yourself. Doesn’t anyone in your fancy castle know these things?”

“I am perfectly capable of lighting a fire, thank you very much. But not with crude sticks as you do. I’m not entirely convinced you’re not using some strange magic to conjure up sparks at will.” Sherlock huffed, sitting in the grass by the fire pit as John fiddled with a branch. He pulled his cloak back on while he watched John work.

John chuckled. “I assure you, it’s not magic. If it were, it’d be a lot quicker and a whole lot more dramatic.”

“What are you doing with that?” Sherlock asked, leaning closer to watch John scrape at one end of the branch with a sharpened rock.

“I’m making a sort of wedge shape in the end. That way, it’ll make a groove in the other piece of wood. But first I have to flatten out that surface.” John explained what he was doing as he did it, going slower than he usually did so Sherlock could follow along. Sherlock wasn’t exactly an expert on fire-lighting by the end of it, but he had a vague understanding of the process that he could work with.

“Now, will you show me how to work that crossbow?” John asked, with obvious excitement. Sherlock sighed and huddled further under his cloak. Although he would’ve liked to say yes, the cold had made his fingers stiff, which would make operating a crossbow a lot more difficult.

“What, now? Aren’t you cold?”

“The cold doesn’t bother me so much. Neither does heat. I think it’s got something to do with… this.” John gestured vaguely to himself, indicating his ever-present aura.

“So, that isn’t just… how your skin is?” Sherlock had always been unbearably curious about that particular feature of John’s appearance.

John shook his head. “It… sits on top of my skin. I can feel it if I concentrate, but mostly it’s like air. It’s there, but I don’t notice it.”

“And it protects you from the cold.”

“It protects me from many things.” John responded, just as eager to answer Sherlock’s questions as he was to ask them. Without warning, he thrust his hand into the growing fire. Sherlock gave a shout of alarm but quickly realized that while the fire licked at his hand like an overeager puppy, John showed no sign of pain. When John pulled it out, Sherlock instantly grabbed it to make a more thorough inspection of the damage, or lack of which.

“Did you feel anything?” Sherlock asked as he turned the appendage over in his hands. It was warm, but pleasantly so. The skin underneath the strange barrier was completely unmarred, the firm structure of muscle and bone underneath it was still perfect in every way.

“I felt heat. The soft ash at the bottom of the pit. The charred wood.” John answered, giggling as Sherlock pulled at a bit of loose skin. He pulled the strange boy’s hand closer to his face, squinting as he contorted the fingers in different ways.

“I can see it now. The place where the skin ends and the… shield begins.” It was a thin layer, no more substantial than fuzz on a peach, but if he looked very closely, he could see it bend where he came in contact with John. He played with it with is for a few minutes, tapping John’s skin in different ways to see how the aura would react. He found that approaching it with force caused it to resist, keeping his finger a needle’s point away from touching skin. But it was more malleable under gentler touches, bending enough to allow contact. “That’s fascinating.”

“Ok, that’s quite enough.” John grumbled, pulling his hand back into his own possession. While he didn’t mind indulging his friend’s curiosities, no one enjoyed being studied like a rare butterfly. “Could you show me how the crossbow works now?”

Sherlock pouted a little at being deprived of his explorations, but nodded.

“Go stand by that pile of wood.” He instructed, walking to a large tree at the other end of the clearing. He drew a knife he kept in his belt and carved a rough circle in the trunk. Once he had a half-decent target drawn up he walked back to John, who making himself look ridiculous by trying to find a way to hold the bow without looking ridiculous. Sherlock took the contraption from him and loaded it with one of the arrows he had in his pocket. “You brace it against your shoulder like so…”

Sherlock ran through a few demonstrations at John’s request, elaborating on various parts of the process until the target tree was studded with arrows and even more were lost to the bushes. By the time he handed the crossbow over, John knew exactly what he was doing.

But whether or not he could do it was anyone’s guess.

John took two tries to load the bow because it slipped off his shoulder the first time. But he loaded it. Then, he took a full minute to aim it correctly. Which was good. It was better to take time and be cautious than to shoot himself in the foot. Like Sherlock did his first time with a bow. Then he pulled the trigger, letting the arrow fly far and fast. A full yard away from the tree.

“You missed.” Sherlock announced. “But… Not bad for your first shot.”

“No, I didn’t.” John turned to face Sherlock, beaming. A fat bird fell from the tree. “Thank you Sherlock. It’s an excellent gift. I’ll never go hungry again.”

“Glad to hear it.” Sherlock replied as John walked off to fetch their lunch. Once he was out of ear shot he mumbled something under his breath. “Happy birthday.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, I have no idea how crossbows or fires work. I live in Arizona. Everyone’s got guns and things just sorta burst into flame on their own.

**Author's Note:**

> BTW, John's theme song in this fic is Like the Dawn by The Oh Hellos.


End file.
